


No More Than Three Feet Apart

by coricomile



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Labyrinth Fusion, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:15:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24449458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: “I’d wish for you to live forever,” Patrick said, bending to press his lips to Pete’s forehead. “The goblin king can give me that.”
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Comments: 7
Kudos: 13





	No More Than Three Feet Apart

**Author's Note:**

> Clearing out the backlog.

Patrick was scrunched in a corner of the couch, legs curled under himself, one hand on a bottle of water, the other holding up his old, battered book of fairy tales. His old pajama pants were too long at the legs, folding over his even older socks, but they were soft and comfortable. They reminded him of his mother’s house.

The television buzzed in front of him, MTV on mute. It was the only light in the room, flickering in time to beats Patrick could recognize if he tried. Three plates were scattered across the table, the remains of the night’s pizza casting shadows across the wood. The VCR flashed red, the numbers flipping to read two-oh-seven.

Distantly, Patrick could hear Joe’s soft snores from the open door of his room, could make out the scritch, scritch, scritch of their cat’s nails on her scratching post. It was quiet. Peaceful in a way that an apartment shared by three boys usually isn’t. Patrick yawned into his wrist and turned a page.

The book had been his mother’s, once upon a time. It had been his favorite since he’d been old enough to memorize the words and mimic them. The cover was leather, worn down with use and age, and the pages smelled like an old library, musty and welcoming. The words had faded in spots, rubbed away by thumbs and palms, but Patrick knew the entire thing by heart. Could recite it in his sleep.

He was lost in the familiar words, familiar characters and scenes, when the couch shifted. A head rested on his thigh, snuggling into the folds of where his shirt met his pants. Warm breaths puffed against his stomach.

“You should be in bed,” Pete said, his lips pressed to the curve of Patrick’s hip. Patrick hummed a non-reply and nodded to his book. “Doesn’t look like homework.”

“It isn’t,” Patrick replied. He slid his fingers through Pete’s hair and scratched his fingers behind the shell of his ear. Pete leaned into it, eyes closed.

“You want to read it to me?”

“No.” And he didn’t want to, not really. It was his and his mother’s, and it felt wrong to share it, even with Pete. Especially with Pete. He flipped a page and curled is fingers into Pete’s hair again.

“Sharing is caring,” Pete mumbled into Patrick’s stomach. The edges of his smile felt sharp. Too many pills, too little sleep. “Don’t you care about me?”

“As little as possible,” Patrick answered. If Pete were to ask again, Patrick would cave. He always caved, in the end.

“Your callus words hurt me, Rick.” Pete reached up and tugged the book free from Patrick’s hand, resting it against his own thigh. “The only way to mend my broken heart is to tell me a story.” Patrick sighed.

“It’s about goblins.” Patrick wriggled his foot under Pete’s back, trying to work feeling back into it. Pete waved a hand, gesturing for more. “The goblin king falls in love with this girl, right? And he gives her the power to wish for whatever she wants, so she, like, gets pissed off at her brother and wishes him away, and-“

“You’re a shitty storyteller, dude,” Pete interrupted, rolling to look up. He laughed when Patrick thumped him on the chest.

“Do you want the story or not?” Patrick leaned his head back against the couch and closed his eyes. Maybe he was tired, after all.

“What would you wish for?” Pete asked, breaking the silence. He was turning the book over in his hands, rubbing his thumbs over the smoothed cover. “I think I’d wish for eternal youth.” Pete laughed a little, but it was brittle around the edges. “Put me in a pair of green tights and call me Peter Pan.”

“I refuse to answer to ‘Wendy’, just so you know.” Patrick rubbed at his eyes under his glasses. They were burning, tired.

“Wendy leaves,” Pete said softly. The silence stopped being comfortable, too thick. Too heavy. Pete’s eyes were unfocused. Patrick rubbed his thumb across Pete’s cheek. The skin was warm and smooth, maybe stretched a little too thin.

“I’d wish for you to live forever,” Patrick said, bending to press his lips to Pete’s forehead. “The goblin king can give me that.”

They made their way to their shared bedroom, sleepy yawns tucked into shoulders, tired eyes blinking too much. Pete fell into his bed dramatically, a sprawl of arms and legs on top of an old Toy Story print quilt. Rolling his eyes, Patrick yanked the quilt out from under him, tucking him in like a child. Pete grinned up at him, and Patrick’s chest tightened.

Patrick stumbled into the bathroom and made a lazy attempt at brushing his teeth. The toothpaste was cinnamon, obnoxiously squeezed out from the middle, and felt too hot in his mouth for the hour. Patrick spat into the sink twice, rinsed his mouth out with lukewarm water.

“Night, Pete,” he mumbled as he headed for his own bed. Rubbing at his eyes with a loose hand, Patrick leaned over Pete’s bed. The sheets were flat, rumpled but vacant. “Pete, not funny.” He reached for the quilt, ready to steal it for his own bed. Before he could grab it, though, something moved under it.

Patrick stumbled backwards, catching himself against Pete’s dresser. Laughter raced around the room. The bathroom light flicked off. Something warm and furred ran across his feet, prickling against his skin through his socks. The sheets on both beds flew under the mattresses, pulled by grey, sickly hands.

Patrick turned and yanked open the door. He ran to Joe’s room, pounded on the door that had been closed. He yelled into in, pressed his mouth to the doorjamb and screamed. The laughing behind him escalated, pulsing and tangible. The lights flickered again, shadows lingering in the corners of the hall. The front room window flew open, crashing into the wall.

Patrick jerked the doorknob, kicked at the door. Why wasn’t’ Joe coming? Something scaled and cold wrapped around his ankles, pulled him to the ground. Patrick threw his arms over his head. His heart was stuttering in his chest, his breath coming short. A shadow fell across him.

A man stood in front of him, leaned against the opposite wall. He was tall and thin, his long legs crossed at the ankles. He wore skinny jeans and a purple hoodie, a pink hat turned sideways over his short hair. A long chained necklace dangled from around his neck, a square plastic medallion of himself hanging from it. He snapped his fingers and the laughter stopped.

“Who are you?” Patrick asked, curling his fingers into loose fists. He wasn’t a fighter-not really- but he was willing to make exceptions.

“Tricky, baby, I think you already know,” the man said, crouching down, resting one elbow on his bent leg. Patrick’s eye twitched.

“A burglar?”

“Try again.” The man’s grin was wide, toothy. He pulled his necklace off and flicked the medallion. It spun around unnaturally fast, the picture inside shifting into glimpses of dreams and nightmares.

“Are you-“ Patrick shook his head, feeling foolish. Was he really thinking that? “Are you the goblin king?” The man’s grin grew wider. He tipped his hat and offered a hand.

“Gabe Saporta,” he said. “You, though, can call me whatever you want.”

“Where’s Pete? And Joe?” Patrick pushed himself up, ignoring Gabe’s outstretched hand. He adjusted his knit hat, suddenly glad he hadn’t taken it off. He felt bare enough, as was.

“Joe’s sleeping,” Gabe said calmly, straightening up. “And Pete. Well. You said you want him to live forever, right? I sent him to a place where he can do just that.”

“I meant here.” Patrick eyed the corners of the room warily. Shifting, hunched figures lurked there, features too sharp to be human. “Bring him back.” Gabe tsked.

“What’s done is done, Pattycakes.” He tapped a finger against Patrick’s jaw. “Anyway, you’ve got me here, now.” Gabe touched his cheek to Patrick’s, bent to meet him. “I can give you anything you want.”

“Pete,” Patrick said, voice shaking. “I want Pete back.”

“Doesn’t work that way,” Gabe replied brightly. “Wishes are one-way tickets.” He looped his necklace around Patrick’s neck. His hands were cool, pressing in against Patrick’s t-shirt. His eyes narrowed, flickers of yellow and black, more reptile than human. “You’re heading towards a dead-end.”

“Give me a chance to get him back.” Patrick swallowed around the ball of nerves lodged in his throat. “You can give me that, right?” Gabe frowned. Relief flooded up into Patrick’s chest. There was hope. “Give me a challenge. If I can’t beat it, you can have me instead.”

“Promises, promises.” Gabe snapped his fingers, and the world went dizzy.

\---

The air was hot and dry, suffocating and full of dust. The sun beat down from above, suddenly blinding, big and unnaturally large in the dusky sky. Bells rang in the distance. A giant stretch of walls filled the landscape, stretching into the horizon until it disappeared. In the middle of it all, a castle stood silhouetted. Pictures from his storybook come to life.

“The labyrinth,” Patrick said thickly. An arm rested over his shoulders, long and heavy. It turned him away from the walls, towards a large, towering clock. The face of it was too white, stretched to fit thirteen numbers.

“Thirteen hours, Trick,” Gabe gave another snap, and the clock began ticking. “Find me in thirteen hours-” The arm dropped from Patrick’s shoulders, and Gabe stepped back. His grin was wide, eyes bright. “Or you’re all mine.” Then, he was gone.

Patrick slumped. With Gabe gone, he felt lighter, able to breathe again. The tick of the clock was a constant, lingering in the background. Patrick sighed and kicked at the dusty ground. So much for going to bed.

He started down the hill to the outer wall. The sounds of the world around him were off-kilter, unfamiliar. The sand under his feet felt like pavement, and the dust that rose up with each step smelled like sulfur.

The wall was grey, stretching out as far as he could see, bricks and bricks and moss. Cracks spiderwebbed out from the discolored mortar, deep and black. A vine peeked out from one of the deepest cracks, curling around the crest of the wall, its flowers suspiciously eye-shaped.

A sudden shout startled him. He jumped, turning towards the sound. A young man was stomping gleefully on something, twisting his boot to make the crunch louder. He was Patrick’s height, a little hunched at the shoulders, his hair red and blonde and cut strangely. He spat on the crushed thing and made a mark on the wall.

Patrick inched closer to him. He looked down at the sand and cringed when he saw the thing on the ground. It had been a fairy. The tiny body was crushed, legs and arms twisted at unnatural angles, head twisted too far to the side. Translucent wings lay torn and shredded near the body, the minute veins in them ripped out. Patrick blanched and turned away.

“That’s sick,” he choked out. The man turned towards him. A flower- pink and still tightly closed, dangled from his lips like a cigarette.

“Like you have room to talk,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. “It’s my job. Also, have you ever talked to a fairy?” Patrick shook his head. “Try it sometime, see if you don’t stomp it down, too.”

“You’re fucked in the head, man.”

“No, I’m Frank.” The man raised his eyebrows. “And who, exactly, are you?”

“Patrick.”

“Figures.” Frank swatted at a passing fairy. It bounced against the ground twice. Patrick looked away.

“Do you know how to get in?” He asked the wall, scanning for the gate. There was nothing there, just like there had been nothing there before, but Patrick wasn’t sure if he could believe his eyes anymore.

“Uh-huh.” Frank ground the fairy into the sand and whooped at the crack it made. Patrick winced.

“…and?”

“And what?” Frank asked distractedly.

“Where is it?” Patrick turned back, pointedly not looking at the ground. The sun burned at the back of his neck.

“Where’s what?” Frank twisted the flower in his mouth with his tongue. The petals smoked.

“…The entrance?” Patrick stepped over the fairy carcass, following Frank past a pond full of green, tepid water. A purple lily pad floated on through the mold, unaffected.

“What entrance?” Frank dropped the blackened flower and pulled another out of his pocket. Frustration kicked at Patrick’s chest.

“To the labyrinth, you jackass.” Patrick tugged at his hair and took a deep breath. “Are you stupid or just a jerk?”

“Ask me the right questions, and I’ll give you the right answers.” Frank raised his eyebrows and gave him a tight-lipped smile. Patrick huffed.

“Where’s the door to the labyrinth?” He asked through grit teeth. Frank grinned. Loud, mechanical booms sounded from the wall, creaking and groaning as the bricks rearranged themselves as pulled apart. Patrick’s eyes widened behind his glasses. Frank gestured to the opening with a wide arm, the corners of his lips quirking around the flower.

Patrick stepped inside. The wall was narrow, stretching, stretching, stretching. Dry, brittle leaves and dead, crooked branches littered the ground, which had changed from sand to damp, soft dirt. Patrick looked down and wiggled his toes in his socks. He sighed, giving them up for lost.

“So, if you were trying to get to the center, which way would you go?” Patrick asked, looking back over his shoulder at Frank. Frank shrugged and blew a smoke ring.

“Neither.”

“Jesus.” Patrick kicked a stone at him, wincing at the pain that shot up his leg. “You’re fucking useless, dude. You know that? Useless.”

“Nice, kid. Alienate your only source of help.” Frank flicked the flower at him, sneering. It caught fire over the brush. “Your problem is that you take everything for face value. Even if you get there, he’ll never let you out.” Frank let out a derisive laugh and turned on his heel. The fire on the ground put itself out. “Good luck and whatever.”

The wall closed behind his back, sealing brick by brick. Patrick ripped a handful of moss from the bricks and threw it at the seams. It was weak, but dammit. He didn’t ask for this shit.

Taking a deep breath, Patrick closed his eyes, turned an awkward circle, and started down the right path. The leaves crunched underfoot, pricking up through his socks to stab at the soles of his feet. Music, faint and distant, echoed off the walls, unfamiliar and sweet.

The path tunneled, unending. Patrick trailed a hand along one wall, feeling the peeling paint and flaking mortar. He thought of Pete, locked away inside the castle. It made a spike of guilt run through his chest. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not to him. Not to Pete.

Time stretched, and still no bends. No turns. Nothing to stray him from the never-ending stretch of hall. Patrick clenched his fists and kept going. He couldn’t stop, couldn’t assume anything. His fingers caught on something. Patrick looked at the wall, frowning. It was nothing different from the rest, just the same dull paint, same uneven bricks, yet-

“Holy shit.” His fingers slid into the wall, disappearing into the brick. The air against them was cooler, but there was no pressure pushing back against them. “This is such a bad idea.” Still, Patrick closed his eyes and stepped into the wall.

\---

The music was uproarish, loud and bass-heavy. Hundreds of creatures- bent, grey-faced and disfigured- bobbed around the ballroom, yelling over one another, sloshing foul-smelling drinks in pewter mugs.

Gabe lounged across his throne, bouncing his leg against the plush arm. He held a mug in one hand, a remote in the other. A wide, flat television hung from the wall closest to him. On it, Patrick was picking his way through a field, kicking at the lilies that were twisting their way around his ankles. Gabe zoomed in on Patrick’s face and paused.

“So much trouble,” he said airily, “just for you.” He curled his lip at Pete, who sat on the steps leading to the throne, arms tied behind his back. He was still in his sleep shorts, barefoot and shirtless. A goblin sat hunched at his side, lifting a cup of ale to Pete’s mouth every so often. It tasted disgusting, but Pete was getting a nice buzz, so he figured there was that, at least.

“You’re kind of creepy, dude,” Pete said, nodding to the television. “And coming from me, that kind of says something serious about your psyche.” Gabe waved a hand at him dismissively. He started up the image again and shook his head.

“Dude, do you see him?” He turned his head in Pete’s direction, raising an eyebrow. “This is the moment I’ve been waiting for for years.” Pete narrowed his eyes.

“Exactly how old are you, again?” He asked, leaning away from the cup the goblin was holding to his face. Gabe yawned.

“Three hundred thirty-six.” He kicked a passing goblin- one that was small and furred like a rabbit- into the crowd. It hollered and whooped as it was caught by dozens of stubby fingers.

“My pedophile jokes are no match for your creepy.” Pete swung his legs off the steps, trying to get circulation back. “Why Patrick?”

“Look, I’ve been king for a long time.” Gabe sat up properly on his throne, resting his elbows on his thin thighs. “And it gets lonely, y’know? The company isn’t really A-material.” He gestured to the dancing goblins. Pete…. could see his point. “And, then, he comes along and they go crazy for him.

“Please tell me you’re not saying-“

“Hoggle and Boggle have been watching him since he was old enough to toddle.” Gabe crossed one leg over the other, grinning. “All he had to do was ask me for something. Which he did.”

“Your skills impress me,” Pete admitted reluctantly. “But, still. Patrick’s mine.” He huffed and turned back to the screen to watch.

\---

The walls had gone from grey, messy brick to brown bricks of mud. Tall, crooked pillars reached up into the sky, made from the same clay. The sun bounced off the walls, made shimmers of heat rise from the ground. The halls and paths were many and spaced out, opening to wide courts and circling in unending circuits.

Patrick’s feet were burning through his socks. He’d been going through hall after hall, winding through for hours. He scrubbed a hand over his eyes. They were burning from the sunlight, tired behind the lenses of his glasses. He groped in his pockets and let out a sigh when he found a purple sharpie. Thank god for Pete Wentz’s pen obsession. Patrick bent and drew a shaky arrow on the dusty ground. He followed the path down until it split again.

“This is old,” he said aloud. He stopped and rubbed his temple. “I’m talking to myself. Great. That’s just what I need right now.” Sighing, Patrick spun a quick circle. He drew an arrow in the direction he was pointing and headed down the hall. It only took a few steps to catch sight of a dead end. “Damnit.”

Patrick fought the urge to kick the wall. He’d learned it was more hurt than help about two hours ago. He turned and started down the other way. He cursed when he saw the arrow he had drawn. It was turned, pointing in a new direction.

“That’s cheating!” Patrick chucked the sharpie and slammed a fist into the wall. It hurt, ripped at the skin of his knuckles. Patrick rode the endorphins and yelled. He turned to leave and almost slammed into a wall. “Where’d the path go?”

“Not that way,” a voice said behind him. Patrick whirled around and pressed back against the new wall. Two shields stood side-by-side where the dead end had been. The one on the right was red, the left blue. Twin sets of arms and legs grew from the gilded edges, twisted and yellow. Two heads popped up from the tops, tittering behind the shields. The left head spoke first.

“We’re the only way through now.” The face was dogish, close to human. Its hair hung limp around its face, covering the space where eyebrows should have been/ The other head was eerily similar. Twins, of a sort. It was only then that Patrick noticed the high doors behind them. A guard for each.

“Where do these doors go?” He asked, stepping closer. The heads ducked.

“One door leads to the castle. The other leads to…”

“Certain death,” they chorused together. They cackled behind their shields, ducking back down again when Patrick got too close.

“Which is which?”

“You can’t ask us,” the blue one said.

“You can only ask one of us,” its brother continued. “That’s the thing, there. One of us always tells the truth-“

“And one of us always lies.” The blue guard leaned forward, casting a speculative glance at the other. “He always lies.” The red guard scoffed.

“You filthy liar.”

They bickered back and forth viciously as Patrick tried to remember his logic classes. Pete was better at puzzles than he was. It wasn’t fair. The ache in Patrick’s head was growing, fueled by the nonstop static of voices.

“Shut up!” He yelled. The guards quieted. “Knights and Knaves. That’s the game right?” The guards looked at one another and shrugged. Patrick took a deep breath to calm himself. “Knights and Knaves doesn’t work. If the liar is telling the rules, it’s flawed logic. And both of you agreed on the rules, so either both of you are lying, or there’s no destination behind the doors.”

“Is that right?” The blue guard asked his brother.

“I don’t know. I never understood it.”

Patrick nearly screamed. He shoved the guards to the side, reached blindly for a door handle, and walked in. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw a forest loom ahead. He was in the clear.

“This is such a bullshit labyr-“ He yelped when the ground gave way under him.

Branches tore at his arms and legs, caught his sleep pants and t-shirt. He felt his hat get snagged and torn away. It took a while to realize that the branches were, in fact, hands. Gnarled, grey hands that grew from the walls in bursts. His fall was slowing, slowing, until he was held suspended in the narrow tunnel, fingers twisted around his arms and legs.

“If there’s tentacle monsters, I quit,” Patrick said, matter-of-factly. He squirmed until the hands were in more comfortable places.

“No monsters,” said a deep voice near him. Patrick startled.

“Who’s there?” He asked, wriggling against the hands.

“Just us,” another voice answered. In the dim light, Patrick could just barely make out that the hands were forming faces, talking through finger-formed mouths.

“That’s so many levels of fucked up.” Patrick closed his eyes and wished for home. The secure grips around him never let up, though, and the dark, musty smell of the tunnel was too overwhelming to ignore.

“Which way would you like to go?” The first voice asked.

“What?”

“Up or down?” The second voice continued.

“I have a feeling I’ll regret both.” Patrick took a deep breath and kept his eyes shut tight. “Down?” There was laughter. So many voices laughing, and, then, the grips disappeared, and Patrick was falling again. He landed in a heap on solid ground. The laugher was softer, echoing softly in the walls. “Fuck.”

\---

“He’s made it to the oubliette,” Gabe said tersely. He leaned in towards the television, frowning. The goblins laughed merrily, toasting. Gabe waved them away, sinking back down into his chair. “He should’ve given up already.”

“Dude, he’s not going to give up,” Pete said merrily. He’d managed to convince Gabe to untie him and was currently lying on the floor in front of the television. He rolled onto his back to face the other man, grinning. “He loves me, man.”

“Keep talking, Wentz.” Gabe narrowed his eyes. He clicked the television off and tossed the remote at Pete’s head. It bounced off Pete’s chest, instead, landing in pieces on the cobblestone. “He’s down to his last nine hours. There’s no way he’s going to make it.”

“Oh, dude, you don’t know Patrick.” Pete rested his head on his arms and grinned up at the ceiling. “He’s a determined little shit.”

“I’ve been watching him since he was three, asshole.” Gabe snapped his fingers. A goblin in a jester’s hat brought him a plate of fruit. “I think I’ve got him pegged by now.” Pete shrugged at reached for a handful of cherries.

“I bet he gets here with time to spare.” He popped one into his mouth and grimaced. They were still sour. He spat the pit at a dancing goblin and sucked on a second one. No use letting them go to waste. Gabe raised his eyebrows.

“What’s your wager?” he asked.

“My music.” Pete chucked the rest of his cherries into the pit of goblins and flipped back onto his stomach. He reached for the reassembled remote and flipped the TV back on.

“Doesn’t matter,” Gabe said smugly. “The dwarf’s getting ready to bring him back to the gates.” Pete gasped and tossed himself in Gabe’s direction.

“That’s cheating.”

“Dude, I’m king of the goblins. What did you expect?”

\---

Patrick was freezing. He curled into himself, rubbing his arms. The shaft of light from the tunnel had gotten dimmer, taking the heat with it. Tiny curls of cobwebs still clung to him, leftovers from his frustrated, frightened exploration. All he’d found was rock and dirt. He was close to giving in, calling out for Gabe.

Suddenly, a flame struck up. Patrick scrambled to his feet, clutching his hurt hand to his chest. The flame flickered and grew, exploding into a burst of light that hovered near the ceiling. Patrick covered his eyes, squinting to soothe them.

“Frank?”

“The one and only,” Frank said around the stem of his flower. He jingled a set of keys in front of Patrick’s face. “Want these?”

“How’d you get in?” Patrick looked around, taking in the rough, rounded walls. The dirt was grey, sticking to Patrick’s clothes and hands. Patrick wiped half-heartedly at himself.

“You learn to works,” Frank said with a shrug. “So, how’s about we get you out of here and back to where you belong?”

“You’re going to help me get to the castle?” Patrick let his hands drop, hopeful. This was what he needed- this was his break. Frank snorted.

“Not so much.” He kicked a burlap sack. Dust flew up, making both of them cough. “I’m going to take you back to the gates, you’re going to call for his royal Cobra, and I’m going to go back to stomping those bitey fairy fucks.”

“No.” Patrick tugged at his hair. Frank raised his eyebrows. “I’m not giving up.”

“Can we make this easy? I’m running out of smokes.” Frank dropped his flower in demonstration. The flame reflected off the band of glass trinkets Frank had wrapped around the legs of his pants. Patrick sighed. Pete owed him so hard.

“You like glass?” Patrick pulled his glasses off and held them by one earpiece. The light reflected off the lenses, dancing. Frank’s face lit up. He reached for them with an open hand, eyes wide. Patrick lifted up on his toes, holding the glasses higher. “Take me to the castle, and they’re yours.” Frank shrunk back.

“Here’s a deal for you,” he started. “You hand them over, and I take you home?”

“You were going to do that anyway, asshole.” Patrick clenched his fist and counted to ten. “Look, take me as far as you can. Can you do that, or is that too much for you to handle?” Frank stared at him critically for a few moments before holding out his hand. Reluctantly, Patrick handed over his glasses.

“Deal.” Frank lifted a large wooden plank from the ground and rested it against the wall. It took three tries, but he managed to find the right key to make the plank a door. Patrick heaved a sigh of relief as he stepped into a lit hall. There was a faint hiss. Frank swore under his breath. Something slick and scaled wrapped around Patrick’s ankles, hissing again. And, then, Gabe stood in front of them, tall and dressed in a slick suit.

“Where do you think you’re headed?” Gabe asked, leaning against the wall. He crossed his legs at the ankles, folding his hands behind his head.

“Well-“

“Because this, this doesn’t look like the route to the gates.” Gabe snapped his fingers. An apple dropped at Patrick’s feet. “You look hungry. Eat up.”

“I’m good,” Patrick said tersely. “Where’s Pete?”

“Watching TV.” Gabe shook his head. “You know, this is all a waste. Seriously. Him? Over a king?”

“You both have shitty taste in fashion,” Patrick pointed out. “If that means anything in your grand scheme of things.” Gabe shrugged.

“I’d rather be naked,” he leered. Patrick flushed. “Just ask, Pattycakes. I can show you things no one knows.”

“I’d rather not,” Patrick answered. He raised his chin, trying not to squint his eyes. The world was hazy around the edges.

“Have it your way.” Gabe flicked a spot of dirt from his jacket. “What do you think of the place? I designed it myself.”

“It’s bullshit.” Patrick ignored Frank’s groan. “Thought you said it would be hard?”

“You want hard?” He snapped twice and a clock face broke through the wall. The hands spun forward, stealing two hours.

“That’s cheating!” Patrick threw himself forward, but Gabe dodged him. He grabbed the apple from the ground and tossed it into the air twice.

“King of the goblins. You people keep forgetting that.” He spat on the dirt and wound up. The apple flew down the hall, spinning and spinning, getting larger and larger. “You might want to run now.”

Frank grabbed Patrick’s wrist and yanked, dragging him down the hall. Patrick stumbled, tripping over the vines that grew from the dry, uneven ground. The whir of the machine behind them was growing louder. Patrick could fell the air it was generating against the back of his neck. Frank shoved him sideways, suddenly, knocking him through a weak wall. The machine rumble past.

“That,” Frank panted,” was the stupidest idea, ever.” He held a hand out, helping Patrick to his feet. “Oh, hey, there’s the ladder.”

“How do I know you’re not fucking with me?” Patrick asked as Frank pulled the ladder down. Frank rolled his eyes and reached for his pocket. Patrick’s glasses dangled from the loop of Frank’s belt, bouncing against his hip. He tucked a flower between his lips and began to climb.

“Well. What other choice do you really have?“ Frank asked. Patrick had no answer. He began to climb up after Frank, muttering under his breath.

The sun hurt Patrick’s eyes when they finally broke through to the surface. Frank dusted himself off, puffing on his flower. He helped Patrick out onto the solid ground The air smelled like pine trees, thick and cloying.

“Well. Have a nice trip. Good luck, all that jazz,” Frank said over his shoulder as he walked away.

“The fuck? You said you were going to help-“

“I said I’d take you as far as I could.” Frank one hand toward the opening to a path. “Take that way. There’s less bugs.”

Patrick slugged him. It felt great, even though the tear in his knuckles screamed in protest. He grabbed his glasses back, snatching Frank’s pack of flowers at the same time. Frank clutched his nose, staggering back.

“Fuck you, jackass.” Patrick started down the path Frank had pointed out. There was a loud roar that echoed down the halls. Patrick jumped, nearly toppling backwards. “This is getting old.”

Patrick followed the sound, peeking cautiously around corners. He pressed himself flat against the wall when he caught sight of a flash of silver armor. There were yells and the sharp sounds of metal clashing. Patrick took a deep breath and peered around the corner.

A large, orange furred beast hung suspended from a pillar, his head brushing against the ground. Six goblins in knight’s armor surrounded him. They held long, barbed spears in their gloved hands. The beast roared every time the knights stabbed him, twisting against his bonds. Patrick’s fists clenched.

“Jesus.” He scanned the ground for a weapon. It wasn’t his place but, seriously. Uncool. The beast roared again, low and pitiful. It vibrated up through Patrick’s legs, settled in his stomach. He stepped back and nearly tripped over a fist-sized rock. Curiously, he picked it up and weighed it in his palm. “Come on gym class skills.” He aimed it at one of the knights and threw.

The rock connected with the knight’s helmet, knocking him to the ground. Its spear caught the knight nearest to its shoulder, dragging him down, too. The goblins fell in heaps, tripping over one another. Patrick chucked al the rocks he could find, aiming to scare as much as to damage.

It seemed to work. The goblins ran from the beast, dropping their spears behind them. Patrick waited until he couldn’t hear the knights’ chatter any longer before walking cautiously to the beast.

“Hey, if I cut you down, are you going to, like, eat me?” Patrick felt it was a fair question. The beast’s large, blue eyes blinked at him, wide and soft. Patrick sighed. “Talking to a goddamn muppet.”

Patrick shook his head and picked up one of the discarded spears. It took a few tries, but he managed to fray the rope enough for it to break under the beast’s weight. The beast fell to the ground in a heap, legs over head. Patrick winced. He knelt next to him, carding through the soft, thick fur to find the rest of the rope.

“Do you have a name?” He asked as he pulled the rope from the beast’s legs.

“Bob,” he said in a thick, rough voice.

“An orange muppet named Bob.” Patrick sighed. “Why not?” He stood and offered his hand. The paw that grabbed it was mostly humanoid, save for the claws. He pulled until Bob was on his feet. “You don’t know the way, do you?” Bob shook his head. Patrick scrubbed his hands through his hair, fighting the urge to lay down and scream. “Well. You want to come with? Be the muscle?”

“For you, I’ll eat the damn things,” Bob said thickly, nodding his large head. Patrick blinked. He had no words. Instead, he kept on. His feet were killing him. He had plans on making Pete rub them for hours.

\---

Frank spat on the ground, drawing his knees up to his chest. His nose was swollen, his eyes still blurry. He’d stuffed a wad of leaves up one nostril to stop the blood flow, and all he could smell was pine. He wanted to stomp fairies. Get the anger out.

“Your smoke cloud’s missing.” Gabe sat on a rock, leaned back against a mossy hill. He wore a pair of large, white, lens-less glasses low on his nose, hovering above his grin.

“That little fucker stole my smokes.” Frank spat again. Gabe laughed brightly.

“He’s crafty,” Gabe agreed. “Want to get even?” Frank narrowed his eyes.

“I thought you wanted him whole?” He asked suspiciously. Gabe laughed again.

“That kid is my future husband. And your future king,” he said waving a hand. “I’d never hurt him.” When his hand stilled a large, ripe plum sat on his palm. “I would erase his memory, though.” Frank caught the plum when it was tossed to him.

“What do I get out of it?” Frank slipped the plum into his pocket and patted it.

“Revenge?” Gabe leaned forward, hands dangling between his spread knees. “Not getting your head dunked into the bog of eternal stench?” Frank tensed. Gabe pushed his glasses up with his middle finger and stood. He loomed over Frank, his hips level with Frank’s shoulders. “Oh! Almost forgot. If he touches you, just one touch, you’ll go so far down into the bog you’ll see fossils. We clear?”

“Crystal.” Frank dropped his head to his chest. When he looked up again, Gabe was gone.

\---

They were in a forest. The air was humid, too hot. Patrick was sweating, his shirt sticking to the small of his back. Bob seemed unfazed, if a little uneasy. Patrick climbed on a rock, trying to see past the endless stretch of trees.

“What kind of maze has a forest?” He asked as he hopped down. Bob shrugged.

“The kind made by a man raised by goblins?”

“Point.” Patrick winced when a pine needle stick in is heel. “Fucking nature.”

“Bad place.” Bob touched a tree. It reared back from his paw. Patrick nodded.

“I know, man, but it can’t last forever, right? Like, there’s an end to this somewhere.” He turned a curve and nearly let out a whoop of joy when he saw a clearing. “Hey, this way.” There was silence. Patrick frowned and backtracked. “Bob?” There was no trace of orange fur to be seen in the foliage. “Great. Awesome. Really.”

Patrick headed for the clearing alone, giving Bob up for lost. A break in the treetop coverage was ahead, and, if Patrick looked at one more tree, he might go crazy. He was just reaching the soft, spongy clearing when something hit the back of his legs. A pair of eyes blinked up at him. Patrick screamed.

“Nice pants,” the head said.

“Brendon! Pull yourself together, man,” a voice yelled from the trees. The head sighed and rolled away. It crashed into a pair of legs- too long, unnatural- and rolled up until it settled onto the body’s shoulders.

“Ryan, you’re being rude. Come say hi.” Brendon grinned and put an arm around Patrick’s shoulders. It was thin and light, brittle. Like Patrick could break it by shrugging. Something long and thin fell from the trees, landing at Brendon’s side.

“Hi,” Brendon said tersely. His hand rested on Brendon’s shoulder. Te fingers were spindly, stretched. They tapped in independent rhythms against Brendon’s arm. “Brendon can’t keep himself together when he’s excited.”

“Says the man who has his legs on backwards.” Brendon pouted. Patrick fought to keep his eyes up, on Ryan’s face. His stomach turned. “I like new people,” Brendon said conspiratorially to Patrick, leaning in. His breath smelled like a campfire.

“And we like old friends, too.” Ryan raised his eyebrows. They wiggled up his forehead, into his hair. “Jon and Spencer…?”

“Oh!” Brendon’s arm tightened to the point of painful, his thin bones pinching the skin. “Do you want to come to our party?”

“I actually have to-“

“Come on, Bren.” Ryan began weaving through the trees nimbly. His shoulder popped. One arm slid off and climbed up, up, up. Brendon, with strength that belied his appearance, pulled Patrick along as he followed. Ryan’s arm dropped back down onto the grass. The fingers were clutching a yellow scarf.

“I have to get to the castle,” Patrick said around a wince. “It’s kind of important-“

“Priorities.” Brendon flapped a hand. It detached, and Brendon had to scramble to grab it. He grinned sheepishly. “Butterwrists.” They broke into a second clearing. A fire burned in the center of it, turning the sky orange. Two men sat on opposite sides, tossing something back and forth. The thing passed over the fire, and Patrick could see it was an eye.

“Brendon found a puppy,” Ryan said as he snatched the eye out of the air.

“Can we keep him?” Brendon pushed Patrick forward. Patrick stumbled, tripping into one of the other men’s arms.

“What do you think, Jon?” Ryan asked. He pressed the eye into the fourth man’s eye socket with his thumb. It slid into place wetly.

“He looks little,” Jon remarked. “What do you think, Spencer?” Patrick kicked as he was hefted up and handed over. Spencer eyed him, frowning. One side of his mouth slid too low, like it was melting straight off.

“He’s too stiff,” Spencer replied finally. He prodded at Patrick’s neck, shoved his arms back uncomfortably.

“We should take him apart.” Brendon pushed closer, his smile stretched wide across his face. “He can be one of us.”

Patrick kicked. Brendon’s head popped off and rolled towards the fire. Desperately, Patrick threw his head back, smashing it into Jon’s face. The ground rushed up, needles stuck in Patrick’s skin. It took him a second to shake off the shock. By time he’d gotten up and began blindly running, Brendon had gotten his head back on. Ryan started the chase.

“You’ll pay! That’s cheating!” He yelled. It bounced off the trees, following Patrick around corners. Long, spindly hands latched onto Patrick’s ankles, independent of their arms. Patrick maybe shrieked. He shook them off as he ran, barely dodging the thriving foliage.

“Patrick!”

Patrick looked up and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Frank perched at the top of a wall. He raced towards it at full speed, the echo of footsteps behind him spurring him on. A thick, braided rope of vines dangled down the wall, stark against the mold. Patrick latched onto it like a lifeline.

“You can be one of us!” Brendon called. “You can be free!”

“Fucking leaches,” Frank spat as he hefted the rope up. Patrick tumbled over the wall, onto the walkway. A hand crawled up after him. He stomped on it until he heard bones crack. It limped away, and no parts followed after it.

“Dude, marry me.” Patrick pushed himself onto his elbows, breathing heavily. “They were going to take me apart.”

“Panic gang,” he said with a snort, watching as Patrick got up.

“Thanks, man,” Patrick said, reaching out.

“No! No!”

As Patrick wrapped Frank up in a well-deserved you-saved-my-life hug, the floor gave out.

\---

“You need a housekeeper, dude,” Pete said as he inspected the game room. Dust hung heavy over the pool table, hair clung in clumps in the corners of the room. Pete sneezed when a passing goblin stirred up a cloud of dirt.

“Is that an offer?” Gabe tossed a card at his valet. It bounced off the goblin’s face, landing harmlessly on the ground.

“Yeah, no.” Pete curbed the urge to sneeze again. The room would be nice if it were habitable. “The Wentz cleaning service is out of commission. Try the Trohman service. Speaking of, why didn’t Joe get kidnapped, too?”

“Patrick only wished you away.” Gabe pulled out a box from a stack and whooped. “Monopoly?”

“Is that the Pokémon edition? Sweet.”

\---

The smell was overpowering. Patrick coughed, rolling onto his side. His chest hurt, ribs aching. There was blood on his socks- which were shredded to the point of uselessness- and his feet had gone numb. His head swam, partly from the fall, mostly from the rank air.

“Watch your step!” Frank coughed out. “Get that shit on you and reek forever, I am not even joking.” Patrick staggered along the path, nose buried in the crook of his elbow.

“How’d we end up here?” He asked, stepping carefully around a puddle. The puddle bubbled menacingly.

“You hugged me,” Frank sneered. “Pansy move. Just saying. Oh, hey. Give me my smokes back.” Patrick rolled his eyes but still tossed the pack over, laughing a little meanly at Frank’s struggle to catch them. “Gabe’s not so much about sharing.”

“I am no one’s to be shared! I am not a toy!” Patrick clenched his fists but left them over his face. Frank laughed.

“Right,” he said around a flower. “That’s why you’re going through hell to get whatshisname?” He waved a hand, smoke trails following it. “Pete? Yeah. Lot of trouble if it’s all for nothing.”

Patrick opened his mouth to reply, but the sight of a large lump of orange fur distracted him. He’s have to explain the complex workings of his friendship- friendship!- with Pete later.

“Bob?” He asked as they approached the lump.

“Yeah, you know, all I wanted to do today was eat some rocks,” Bob answered from behind his paw. “Not to blame you, but-“

“Yeah, I know.” Patrick followed closely behind Frank as the dwarf wound around the banks. He led them to an old rock bridge.

The bridge looked unsteady. The pillars were discolored, sank down into the bog. Thick, foul smelling waves crashed against them, wearing at their foundations, and cracks spiderwebbed from the rock, fragile. Patrick shoved Frank forward.

“You go first, dude,” he said. “If you fall, we’ll send a search party.”

“Thanks. Really.” Still, he took a deep breath and stepped forward/ As soon as his foot touched down, a flying streak of black tackled him.

The black streak turned out to be a man- a dirty, greasy man that smelled about as pleasant as the bog- in too many jackets. He stood, blocking the bridge with outstretched arms. Patrick nearly choked on the stench.

“Halt! I am the keeper of this bog, and no one is to pass this bridge without my permission.” He glowered at Frank.

“And who’re you, big shot?” Frank asked. He blew a smoke ring at the man, eyebrow raised. Patrick elbowed him in the ribs.

“Excuse the jackass. So. Who are you?” Patrick took a reluctant breath through his mouth, grimacing at the taste.

“Sir Gerard Way, keeper of the bog.” Gerard gave a half bow to Patrick, nimbly plucking a flower from Frank’s pocket. He placed it between his thin lips. “I wouldn’t try that, dwarf.”

“Like the human’s so much taller,” Frank huffed, hopping down from the rail. “Hey, big guy, want to clear the path?”

Bob ambled forward, reaching out. Before he could make a grab, Gerard had locked a hand in his fur, twisting the arm away. Bob shook him off. There was a moment when Gerard was gone and, then, he landed square on Bob’s shoulders, gripping at his ears. Bob roared.

“Get off!” Bob tossed his head, but Gerard only held tighter and rode the rocking out.

“You’re pretty good,” Gerard said, hopping down. “Not good enough, though.”

“Look,” Patrick said irritably. “I have to get to the castle now, and this place stinks like rotting ass. What do we have to do to get by?” Gerard’s shoulders slumped.

“Um?”

“Dude, really?” Patrick rubbed his temples with his knuckles. “Pete will never make enough money to pay my therapy bills. Look, you said we needed your permission, right? Can we have it? Do we need to, like, sign a paper or something?”

“Um. Well.” Gerard scratched at his dirty hair, smoke rising from the corners of his mouth. “I guess you can just go? I never really had this conversation before.” Patrick’s eye twitched. “Oh, hey, can I come, too? This place is kind of…” He waved a hand and shrugged.

“Fine. Whatever. Can we go now?” Patrick pushed impatiently at Gerard’s shoulders, motioning to the other side of the bridge. He yelped when Bob hefted him up, clinging desperately to fistfuls of fur. “Oh god, don’t drop me.”

“Your feet are kind of torn up,” Bob said softly as he followed after the bickering goblins. Patrick looked at his bloodied socks and grimaced.

“Thanks.” He carefully settled onto Bob’s shoulders, legs locked around his broad chest. His feet throbbed but, as they started walking out of the bog, relief flooded through him.

\---

Patrick’s stomach grumbled. He pressed a hand to it, groaning. Waffles sounded like a dream. He squirmed until Bob set him down, cringing as his feet touched the rough ground. The castle was closer, and Gerard seemed to have a vague idea of which paths to take.

“Burgers,” Patrick said thickly. “Pete’s buying me burgers. And pizza. And all the Arizona iced tea I can drink.” He shuffled along at the back of the pack, eying the trees for anything that looked edible. If worst came to worst, he could feed whatever he found to Frank first to see if it was dangerous. Frank, with creepily accurate timing, fell into step with him.

“I’ve got a goodie,” he sing-songed, pulling a plum from his pocket. He rolled it up his arm, tossing it up and catching it again. Patrick’s stomach rumbled. “Want it?” Patrick narrowed his eyes.

“What’s the catch?” He stopped, eying the plum hungrily. Frank laughed and held it in front of his face.

“No catch. You need your strength to face the goblin city, right?” Frank raised an eyebrow, the corner of his lip lifted in a cold little grin. Hesitantly, Patrick took the plum. It was firm against his palm, warm from Frank’s pocket.

“Thanks,” he said as he bit down. The skin broke, sweet juice sliding down his chin and over his fingers. He groaned, licking the trail from his thumb.

“Sorry, kid,” Frank said, looking away. Before Patrick could ask what for, the world went fuzzy and his breath left him. He fell to his knees, choking, dropping the plum into the mud.

\---

There was a party. It was a nice party, with people dressed in bright, sunny clothes, and loud music, and electric blue drinks that tasted like autumn. The patrons were friendly. They smiled and laughed and gave Patrick hugs as he passed them, even though he didn’t know a single name. The music played on and on.

Patrick was wearing a pair of jeans that were maybe too tight, a t-shirt that was soft in familiar places, and a newsboy cap that felt out of place. His eyes were wide behind his glasses, dark, and his tongue felt heavy in his mouth, dry even though he kept drinking the blue drinks.

A hand landed on his shoulder, startling him. It was warm and large, fit around the bump of his joints like and extension. It led up, up, up to a familiar face. Patrick stared, fuzzy-brained and tired. He knew this man, knew the arms hiding under the suit-jacket sleeves, knew the eyes behind the dark-lensed glasses. Gabe. Yeah, Gabe.

“Do you want to dance?” Gabe asked, letting his hand slide down Patrick’s arm. He brushed their fingers together, fingertips on wrist on fingertips. Patrick nodded, unable to speak just yet. He curled his fingers around Gabe’s and let himself be dragged to the dance floor.

Something slow was playing on the speakers, curling around them until all Patrick knew was the sound and the warm press of Gabe’s chest against his. He wrapped his arms around Gabe’s waist, pressed his cheek to the rough fabric of Gabe’s suit. Gabe kissed his ear.

“Do you like it, Patrick?” Gabe asked. His voice was fluid; it mixed with the music and sat heavy in Patrick’s chest. “They’re all here for you. They love you.” Patrick kept his eyes closed. He swayed with Gabe, feeling him. The hands on his back rubbed in small circles, soothing. “We all love you here.”

There was something unsettling that Patrick couldn’t pin down. Something missing. He lifted his head, looking up. Gabe smiled at him, the curve of his mouth gentle as he leaned forward. Patrick didn’t move away when Gabe’s lips pressed to his. He tasted of ashes.

“I don’t belong here,” Patrick said softly against his mouth. Gabe stroked his cheek, pressed a kiss to his forehead. Patrick’s skin burned.

“You belong with me,” Gabe replied. He rubbed the tip of his nose against Patrick’s, grinning. “You’ve always belonged with me.” Patrick shook his head. The motion made him woozy. Gabe’s arms tightened around his waist.

“No. Something…. Something else is going on.” Patrick’s eyebrows furrowed. He pressed back against Gabe’s arms, but they didn’t give. If only he could remember…

“There’s nothing else, Patrick,” Gabe whispered. “Just you, and me, and your dreams.” He led Patrick to a table, helped him sit. “You do want your dreams, don’t you? Music? Fame? Love?”

“Music…” Patrick stared dumbly at his hand in Gabe’s, frowning. He loved music, loved making music. Gabe’s thumb ran feather-light over his lower lip, distracting him.

“Stay with me. Be a king.” Gabe kissed him again. It was sweet, slow, and Patrick leaned in to it, hands curled in the folds of Gabe’s jacket. The sounds of the party kept on behind them, the voices of the patrons blending with the music. The chime of a clock broke through, sharp over the rest. The sound rattled through Patrick, stuck in his chest and made his heart beat faster. He shoved Gabe away, toppling back over his chair.

“Pete!” He scrambled up, scanning the crowd for the familiar face. How had he forgotten? He shoved his way through the party-goers, frantic for an exit. Gabe chased after him, calling his name.

“Patrick! Don’t!”

Patrick ran for the large windows and closed his eyes. The glass shattered as he crashed into it, and the world went soft again.

\---

Patrick was starting to get used to getting dumped on his ass. He rolled onto his knees, fighting a wave of nausea. His head was still floating, like he’d hot-boxed with Joe, or drank too much. The air reeked of a storm, sharp and too close. Patrick curled his fingers into the mud and forced himself up.

“Patrick?” Gerard’s head popped up from behind a pile of junk. Patrick heaved a sigh of relief. At least he wasn’t alone. “Are you okay?”

“All signs point to no,” Patrick said tiredly. “I just want to get Pete and go home.” Gerard smiled crookedly at him.

“Then let’s go get him.” He helped Patrick over the junk heap and pointed across the yard. “The city’s close. You ready?”

“More than.” Patrick looked over the cityscape. His chest was heavy, legs heavier. So close, so close. He missed Pete. Wanted him nearby so much it ached. Gerard patted him on the back.

“Come on.”

They made their way through the trash heaps, cutting through to get to the gates. Bob was there, leaning in, watching. He smiled- all teeth and horns and blue, blue eyes- when Patrick hugged him. He lifted Patrick to his shoulders, and they began their march on the city.

\---

“You are a dirty, dirty cheater,” Pete said angrily as Gabe tightened the rope around his wrists. “Patrick’s not going to give in, even if he does get stuck here. You know that, right?”

“Dude, I will throw your ass into the cobra pit,” Gabe warned. He checked the monitor and scowled at the picture on it. Patrick was too close. He yanked harder on Pete’s bonds.

“Just saying.” Pete pulled a face. “Whatever happened to chocolates and flowers? Maybe you should have tried that first- not that I condone your Patrick-courting. That’s my forte.”

“And, yet, a year later and you’re still as close as I am,” Gabe said. Pete frowned and hunched down. “Don’t make me gag you, man. I’d like us to part ways on good terms.”

“Your chance at Stockholm Syndrome just got ruined, buddy.” Pete tugged at his bonds, frowning. “Also, ow. Patrick loves me, you dickbag. He’s just slow on the uptake.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Gabe said cheerily. “You’re going to go sit in the dungeon, and the goblins are going to stall them.” Gabe snapped his fingers and a team of goblins began to haul Pete away. “You can come to the wedding!” He called as Pete was tossed in the elevator. “It’ll be great!”

\---

The gates were made of barbed wire. The bars coiled around and around, tight ropes of razor edges and rusting metal. Gerard stabbed a finger at them, testing their strength. It came back bloody, the bars unmoved.

“Open up, you coward!” Gerard shouted, kicking the gate. Patrick tackled him and slapped a hand over his mouth.

“Dude, no,” he hissed. “I so cannot handle an entire city of goblins throwing down tight now, alright?” He waited until Gerard nodded to remove his hand. “We’ll sneak, okay? Sneak.”

“But we’re noble,” Gerard whispered. “We’ll win with honors.”

“I hate to break it to you, but we’re not in a movie,” Patrick said as he stood. “A fucked up fairy tale, maybe.” He eyed the gate warily. “Bob, if I gave you my shirt, do you think you open the gate?”

“I can try,” Bob answered, prodding at the lock. Patrick sighed and reached for the hem of his shirt. Pete owed him orgasms. And a hat.

Bob wrapped the shirt around a bare spot and twisted it, grabbing on with both paws. It took two pulls- fierce and jarring- but the gate fell from its hinges, clattering to the ground with a burst of dust. Gerard cheered. Patrick patted Bob’s arm affectionately and stared morosely at his ruined t-shirt.

The city was run down, dirty. The huts that lined the roads were small, made of mud and leaves, sturdy in the heat. Animals- strange, deformed variations of the creatures Patrick knew- ran rampant through the streets, nosing in garbage and bleating at each other. It was quiet. Patrick’s skin prickled. He rubbed his bare arms, swallowing down his nerves.

They walked through the narrow streets, peering into empty hut windows. The houses were jammed too tight together; if one went down, all of them would. A crack echoed through the street and, suddenly, Patrick was on the ground, Gerard over him. A cannonball flew over them, crashing into a wall. Mud bricks exploded onto the street, showering them with debris. Loud, shrieking cries pierced the silence.

“We should run now,” Gerard said shrilly. Patrick nodded. They scrambled up, breaking into a run as a group of goblin soldiers rounded a corner.

They rushed up the stairs to the central plaza, Bob’s lumbering footsteps behind them. Patrick stumbled over a loose brick. The ground came up fast, then, a jerk. He yelped as Bob threw him over his shoulder, the press of it into his stomach knocking him breathless. Fur blocked his nose, and his mouth smashed into solid muscle, splitting open his lip.

Knights in armor and civilians in work clothes chased after them, shouting unintelligibly. Patrick’s eyes were wide, his lip bleeding freely into Bob’s fur. A stray rock caught Bob’s tail, the smack of it making him stumble. Patrick held on for dear life. His vision went blurry, flicked back to Pete on the couch, depressed and half-asleep. His chest ached with more than fear.

A yell, sharp and piercing, cut through the din. Patrick felt Bob startle under him, saw Gerard’s hair whip over his face as he turned his head to look. A blur of skin and red and blonde threw itself in front of the mob.

“Frank!

“The castle’s free of guards. Get in, get your boy, and get out.” Frank looked at Gerard, eyebrows raised. Gerard went to his side.

“We’ll hold them off,” he said, smiling crookedly. Bob hurried off before Patrick could thank them.

The castle was, in fact, empty. Bob set Patrick down in the abandoned foyer. The remains of a party crunched underfoot as they made their way carefully through the hall. At the door, Patrick stilled. He touched the frame tentatively,

“Bob, can you,” he stared, throat closing. “Can you wait here?” Bob cocked his head. “I think I have to do this alone. Just me and Pete and Gabe.”

“I’ll be here.”

Patrick threw his arms around Bob’s thick middle, burying his face into his chest. Bob patted his back with a supportive paw, smiling when Patrick pulled back. Patrick took a deep breath and stepped into the ballroom.

“You know,” came Gabe’s voice, detached and echoing,” I don’t rewrite history for everyone.” Patrick’s fists clenched. “You asked for Pete to live forever, and I’m giving him that chance. Are you going to take immortality away from him?”

“I’m not letting you turn him into a goblin,” Patrick said through grit teeth. He startled when a hand landed on his shoulder. Gabe’s breath was hot on his neck.

“Just give in.” Gabe wrapped around Patrick’s chest, locking him in. “Let me love you.” He slipped his free hand down Patrick’s bare chest, splaying his fingers over his belly. “Let me give you your dreams.”

Visions of singing onstage filled Patrick’s head, kept him pinned to Gabe’s chest. He could hear the crowd, see their faces staring up at him. Could feel the lights burning into him, feel the familiar cut of guitar strings under his fingertips. The words were felt off in his mouth, though, unfamiliar and wrong.

“Just stay here with me,” Gabe said into the curve of Patrick’s shoulder, all wet heat and pressure. “Forget about Pete.”

Patrick jerked out of Gabe’s grasp, stumbling away. He caught himself against a wall, squeezing his eyes shut. His heart beat hard against his ribs, and sick rose in his throat.

“Give Pete back,” he choked out, eyes still screwed shut. “I beat your fucking labyrinth, I won. Just stop.” Cold fingers pressed against his cheeks. “Stop!” Patrick lashed out, swinging blindly. Something solid hit the ground, and the air tensed. Patrick opened his eyes. Gabe was sprawled on the stone, lifted up by his elbows. “You’re nothing to me.”

“Patrick-“

“No! You’re meaningless.” Patrick took a deep breath and shook his head. “You have no power over me.”

Gabe winced as if he’d been hit. He shrank under his clothes, leaving them a writhing heap. Patrick leapt away when a large, tan cobra slithered from the pile. The walls of the castle began to melt, bricks and debris falling from the ceiling. Patrick threw his arms over his head and clenched his eyes shut.

When he opened them again, he was in his room, knelt down between the beds. He felt around his neck, his fingers catching on the chain of Gabe’s necklace. He yanked it off and tossed it toward the wall.

“Pete?” He called, bringing himself to his feet. There was a clatter from the kitchen. Patrick ran towards it, skidding to a halt on the linoleum.

Pete was rubbing his wrists, scowling at a long, tattered span of rope. He looked up as Patrick crashed through the hall. Then, he attacked. They were a mess of hands and legs and too-tight hugs on the floor, heads bumping and hearts pounding. Patrick pressed his face to Pete’s chest and nearly sobbed.

“It’s okay,” Pete said into Patrick’s hair, hands strong on Patrick’s back.

“I’m hatless and shirtless and so tired, and I love you.” Patrick curled his hands around Pete’s shoulders and listened to the steady heartbeat under his ear. Pete laughed, a little breathless.

“It took you all this to get that?” He asked, shaking under Patrick’s weight.

“Shut up,” Patrick said, and kissed him until they fell asleep.


End file.
